“Because he’s doing it in his spare time, and he’s doing it for free.”

Beep-beep. It’s now 22:39. BSD yet again:

“When’s the new-look church website going to be ready?”

Point to note: I am not a fiery redhead, but by now, I was on the verge of acting true to stereotype. Instead, I remembered that useful phrase from my interrogator course all those years ago. I decided to “ICATQ” him.

“I cannot answer that question.”

Beep-beep. BSD yet yet yet again:

“Why not? You said you were aiming to get the website up and running this month.”

(Ladies, when I use the word “aim,” I mean it in the same sense that men “aim” for the toilet bowl. It’s very, very approximate. You get the picture now, don’t you?)

My reply:

“I cannot answer that question.”

I think by 22:47, BSD had got the message. Literally and figuratively. Time for me to switch mobile phone off for the night.

BSD has a habit of advising others on how it should be done better. In fact, he gives more “on-the-spot guidance” than Kim Jong-un, President of North Korea.

Some “on-the-spot guidance” from BSD…

We should use fresh milk instead of UHT milk for post-service refreshments.

“Fine. Then you go buy some… What’s that you say? You don’t have the time?”

We should brew decaffeinated coffee as well as caffeinated coffee.

Guess what… “Fine. Then you go buy some… What’s that you say? You don’t have the time?”

We should provide lactose-free milk in case some visitors are allergic to ordinary milk.

“Fine. Then you go buy some… Oh, what’s that you say? You don’t know where you can buy some?”

We should update the website to enable the church to do a live broadcast of the Sunday sermon.

“Good idea. Hey, why don’t you do the business analysis, you write the requirements, you meet with the chaplain and the webmaster, you test it, and you launch that new functionality? What’s that you say? You don’t have the time or the technical expertise? Oh, just fancy that.”

We should head down to the local train station and talk to people about Christianity.

“What a brilliant suggestion. Many thanks for that. Tell you what. You design and print out a load of leaflets, you get yourself over there, you go up to people and speak to them in German… oh, you don’t speak German, eh?”

“We” in this context, in fact, means:

Anybody except for me.

The back-seat driver. Please, please, please pray for those who have to deal with them…

First world problems, I know. But everyone reaches their limit. This week I’ve been aware that I need to ease off a bit and give myself some “me-time.” Who guards the guardians? Who cares for carers? Sometimes – nobody. Sometimes the caring moves on an Einbahnstrasse: a one-way street.

This week I’ve been quite blessed to have two fellow members of congregation possessing pastoral skills, who have been taken a large amont of “payload” off me, dealing with a member of congregation, who has been ill in hospital the past fortnight. This member of congregation has Ted Stryker tendencies. He is very “admin-intense” to use a British Army expression. (But Ted and his ways will form material for another blog article or three.)

All this week I’ve been feeling fatigued on coming home after work. Hour-long long lie-down next to tower fan, my current best friend in the heatwave. Earlyish into bed. No energy to even give my bathroom and kitchen a good clean-up. Many thanks, Schatz, for being Mrs Mopp this weekend. 🙂

After church service today I unloaded to two church confidantes to the effect that I was – for the first time in months – going to head home for a lazy Sunday afternoon. V asked if I would like to join her on a pastoral visit to “Ted.” I politely declined the invitation, explaining that “Ted” had been too “admin-intense” for me the past week and a half, with contacting hospital chaplains, as well as reading SMS messages that, in length, but not quality , rivalled Paul’s letters to:

The Romans

The Ephesian

The Corinthians

The Athenians

The Americans

The Albanians

The Sunday Times

The Daily Mail

I just needed time away from Ted. To correctly quote Greta Garbo:

I just want to be left alone.

V then thanked me for everything I do in church, which left me with a lump in my throat. I’m not a child. I don’t expect a pat on the head, a gold star, or to be sent to show my nice, neat handwriting to the headteacher. Nonetheless a sincerely expressed thank you is always well-received.

This afternoon I have spent precious hours flopped out on the sofa, writing my diary, listening to the radio and also planning further blog articles based on:

Germany is famous/notorious for “everyone getting their kit off at the first opportunity.” Actually, that’s not quite the truth. Walk down any German high street, and everyone is fully clothed. Sit on any German train, and they are all fully clothed, even during a heatwave like we have today, temperatures of 30+ degrees c.

Whereas Germany does have the FKK (Freikörperkultur – “free body culture”) beaches and sections of the park, it’s still the minority of Germans who do go there. (Well, as far as I am aware. I admit, I have not done a scientific survey of my colleagues and neighbours.) Most Germans will still wear their swimming costume, bikini or trunks on when they go sunbathing.

There is, however, one exception. Woe betide you if you break this rule. Germans go au naturel when they sit in the sauna. Now it’s time for me to answer all the FAQ’s that I get from Brits.

Phew phoar! No, I have never got, cough, cough, “excited” in the sauna.

No, it is not at all erotic.

No, after my first visit to a German sauna, I did not rush out to buy a season ticket.

Sex gods and goddesses do not visit the sauna. Most German sauna-goers are not by any means salad-dodgers. However, they tend to eat those salads on top of their cheeseburger, large Pommis mit weiss, bratwurst, and washed down with a few gallons of beer, followed by a large piece of Black Forest gateau. Most of them make me look slightly anorexic.

No, I have never met my bank manager/next-door neighbour/that lady who works down the local cafe, while sitting minding my own business down the sauna.

No, I do not make sure I have a good look, phoar…

What impressese me is how businesslike, practical and logical Germans are about the whole business of sitting in the sauna:

in the buff

in your birthday suit

in the nip (Irish English expression)

au naturel

starkers

insert your favourite euphemism

My favourite sauna is the infra-red sauna at mine and Schatz’ favourite health farm. 45 degrees warmth and the infrared warms those sore joints. Next to it is the Tecaldarium, with tiles rather than wooden slats. Ideal if you have back or joint pains.

So what happens if you do enter the sauna in clothes, eg bikini or swim shorts?

Answer: One of the workers will rush into the sauna at the speed of a thousand leaping gazelles, shout at you, double you out of the sauna and tell you that you are to:

Undress immediately

Shower

Re-enter the sauna

…which has to be much more embarrassing than being seen naked in the sauna would have been.

Oh yes, once you do enter the sauna, you must- by tradition – call out a mighty, cheery “Halloooooooooo!” to all the gathered textilfreie people on the slats (or tiles).

I have to say I find the German attitude to be a lot more mature than the British, rather giggly-girl, attitude towards people taking all their clothes off. And believe me, after the first three nanoseconds, you really, really don’t bat an eyelid. You just end up sitting in silence if everyone else is silent, or you join in the conversation about the weather, Brexit, Helmut Kohl, etc.

Today’s statistics:

Starting weight: 122.4kg

One week ago: 120.2kg

Today: 118.3kg

That’s 4.1kg off in four weeks. I am happy.

So what had happened? A week ago I had blipped upwards due to a slack weekend. I had had food porn – Irish English breakfast – down the Irish pub in the city centre, bread rolls and a few cocktails. No regrets. It’s a way of eating, not a diet. I now know after several weeks on this diet/WoE, that as soon as I get back on track without making anny big fuss, the weight comes off, generally within 3-5 days.

On a positive point, friends have started noticing my weight loss, asking what diet I am trying. Two of them have ordered the book and have started within the last fortnight.

“If Ginge in Germany can manage it, so can I.”

And my new Marmite cycling top fits me just nicely. It even has a nice jar-like shape. Not long now till the Tour de France starts in Düsseldorf. Los!

Vocab point for native German-speakers: debt collector = der Inkassobeauftragte or derSchuldeneintreiber. They are people whose job it is to knock on your door and get the debtor to pay their debts. I think you get the idea, especially if one these people hass ever paid you a visit.

What I wonder is this:

Train driver

Army officer

Policeman

Doctor

Nurse

Bricklayer

I can understand why youngsters will tell the careers adviser that they would like to, would love to, would dream of becoming one. But has any careers adviser ever had a year 11 student ever say:

Please, Sir, my career ambition is to become a debt collector.

My first experience of dealing with a debt collector hammering on the door was back in 2003.

I leave the sofa and the ITV news to head to the door, while my Dad enjoys his tea, for I was visiting him for the weekend NB: Chain is on door. Old HM Forces habits of being security-conscious.

At the door – a man looking like a stereotypical night club doorman.

Good evening, sir. Are you John Barleycorn?

Who?

John Barleycorn.

An unfriendly scowl from the visitor, holding his clipboard.

Never heard of him, I’m afraid.

Yeah, yeah, everyone tells me that. Are you Mr John Barleycorn?

Nope.

Well, who are you?

Well, who are you, first of all. Can I see some form of ID, please?

Tut and humph and sigh, and ID badge with name, Nick H***, on it. Acme Recovery Services. “Recovery” being a euphemism for “debt collectors.”

Can you produce some form of ID then?

No. I don’t have to.

Well, do you know where John Barleycorn has moved to?

Time for a bit of fun (for me, at least)…

Actually, I do know where he lives. John Barleycorn, you say? Now, hang on a minute. He did leave a note, giving a forwarding address. Now, I had a tidy-up yesterday. I can’t find the piece of paper right now, but it’ll be somewhere in my study. Tell you what, I don’t want to have people knocking on my door again, wasting my time and their time. If you could give me your mobile number, I can give you a bell and give you his new address. I think it’s somewhere in Northallerton.

Would you? That would be much appreciated, mate. Here’s my calling card, with my mobile on.

Conversation ends. Our man walks off back to his 4WD.

Two minutes later a quick phone call to my old boss.

Mike, you’re not exactly interested in the opposite sex. Can you give me an address of a good gay dating website, please,? Oh, and some good buzzwords to use. I’ll explain later.

Er, yeah, whatever. Try www….

Thanks!

Within ten minutes I have registered a profile for our visitor on the website, including his mobile number.

25 year old bi-curious guy in London seeks new adventures, etc etc.

Fast forward two weeks. A payphone in a Yorkshire village. Insert coins of the realm. Dial 07… etc, the debt collector’s mobile.

I get voicemail. A gem. Ein Knaller.

A grumpy, annoyed and altogether unhappy-sounding voice announces:

This is Nick H. Unfortunately I have had to change my mobile number. Please leave me your number, and I will ring you back from my new number.

So, the past weekend. I allowed the shackles to come off a bit. Over the weekend, I ate white bread rolls, and I also had curry twice. Oh, and a couple of bottles of beer. I probably blipped up a bit on weight, but on Monday I was back in the groove today. I tend to think of it as being analogous to a prisoner going on weekend leave and returning to HMP Wherever. (Vocab note: HMP – Her Majesty’s Prison.)

Since the weekend I have been as good as gold, albeit with about ten Haribo sweets altogether. I had been tempted to eat a Halbeshänchen (half a rotisserie chicken) on the way to a meeting yesterday evening, but instead chose to enjoy a nice home-made omelette (mushroom, ham and sliced gouda cheese – most pleasing to the palate).

Yesterday I cycled to a church meeting in glorious sunshine. I cycled back in the dark. I wore my Union JackFlag cycling top and Union Flag helmet. The rationale was not patriotism, but somewhat more prosaic. One month ago, I could not get that top on. Well, maybe I could have, but I would have done a very good impression of Doctor David Banner turning into the Incredible Hulk, with the slow rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-rip sound of shirt material slowly tearing.

Yesterday evening the top fitted me, albeit slightly tightly, but it certainly came down below my belly button. I shall keep wearing the top every time I go cycling to measure progress in terms of looser clothes, as well as scales being friendlier.

Here I am in Union FlabFlag clothing. It turned a few heads as joggers and cyclists headed past me along the banks of the River Rhine…

#ActuallyAutistic - An Aspie obsessed with writing. This site is intend to inspire through sharing stories & experiences. The opinions of the writers are their own. I am just an Autistic woman - NOT a medical professional.